


Hurt/comfort or flangsty Harry/Draco drabbles & ficlets

by Lokifan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars, Sectumsempra Scars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 13:43:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 4,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14403354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokifan/pseuds/Lokifan
Summary: This is all my hurt/comfort-y H/D, or stuff with too much emphasis on the pain for me to put it under 'fluffy H/D'. It does all have at least a happy-for-now ending though.This is also mostly from 8+ years ago; my most recent (and probably last) Harry/Draco fic, written in late 2017, is probably distinctly better. But a lot of this stuff I think is pretty good, and I'm a completist :)





	1. Another Sort of Sunlight

Harry Potter was shirtless, and Draco thought he might faint.

The heatwave was like nothing they’d known. Apparently it was because of the Dementors’ disappearance: the fog was being burnt away as joy expanded in grief’s place. Hogwarts was having a summer school, and Scotland had turned out to provide no respite from the heat.

Draco went outside to study: Pansy and Theo had already gone and he didn’t want to be alone in the dungeons. Only now everybody was stripping off their shirts, Transfiguring their trousers, and in Pansy’s case throwing her skirt at Neville’s head. They headed for the lake en masse, playing and splashing and giggling in the shallows.

Draco stayed on the shore with his book. He could feel himself flushing but he wasn’t going to swim. He wasn’t even going to unbutton his cuffs.

He couldn’t bear to.

Brilliant, and now Potter had left the water. His shaggy hair was sopping and beads of water were trickling down his bare chest. Draco was going to have a stroke.

“Malfoy? Aren’t you going to come and swim?”

“No.”

Potter’s face creased. “At least take your shirt off – ”

“Scars,” Draco got out. He was horrifyingly close to tears.

“We all have them,” Potter said, his voice low and affectionate. Like he was talking to a first-year who was afraid of the water.

“Not like mine,” Draco snarled.

Potter paused, his green eyes pensive now. Draco glanced away.

“No one will bother you, I swear. You can’t be that scared.”

Oh yes he could, but those intense green eyes were on him and Draco couldn’t take the heat. He stripped everything off but his boxers, Transfigured them into trunks and headed for the water.

Everyone was staring. Draco felt his throat tighten, but he refused to try to shield himself from their eyes. It wouldn’t work anyway; the Mark and the Sectumsempra scars and the dotted burnmarks from Voldemort’s punishments covered too much of his torso.

He felt marked: his pallid, damaged body wasn’t like everyone else’s, with their tans and brief marks of bravery.

But Potter was looking at him with bright eyes that focussed on his face instead of sweeping his body in sordid curiosity, and Draco wanted to play.

He leapt forward into the water, shouting with the shock of the cold, and swam.

Almost immediately, Potter ducked him.

Draco came up spluttering and outraged. Potter was laughing.

“Right.”

He ducked Potter. It turned into a waterfight as they sent it into each other’s faces and wrestled each other underwater. Potter’s body was slick and strong, and Draco was going to completely humiliate himself but he felt too wonderful to care.

He kissed Potter. Potter tasted of lake water and shock and Draco was burning with humiliation. He pulled back, horrified, only –

Potter said, “no, wait,” and kissed Draco. It was like diving into clear water, cool and clear and golden: another sort of sunlight.

Something that would last through the winter.


	2. Closure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a moment, Harry thought it was a hallucination or a stupid mistake. How could Dudley be here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "let me introduce you to...", with Dudley and one of the Trio, for Sorting Hat Drabbles.

For a moment he thought it was a hallucination brought on by the headache he always got from art (or more precisely, the headache he always got from Draco trying to explain art to him). The massive blond man wasn’t facing Harry. It was probably just a stupid mistake.

Harry felt sick.

“Harry?” Draco caught his expression, and looked worried. But Harry couldn’t look at him. His eyes were fixed on the wide back as it turned, and yes: of course. Dudley Dursley.

The blue eyes landed on Harry and went wide. Harry’s stomach twisted. Dudley’s mouth opened in shock and for a moment the cousins stared at each other.

Dudley looked like Uncle Vernon. And he was coming this way.

“Harry.” Dudley looked half-paralysed with awkwardness.

“Dudley.”

“ _Dudley?_ ” Draco repeated.

“I’d like to introduce you to my girlfriend,” Dudley said.

“I’d like to introduce you to a world of pain,” snarled Draco. His eyes were narrowed in pale slits of hatred.

“How… how are you?” Dudley’s small eyes were fixed nervously on Draco, but like all nice middle-class boys from the Home Counties, he kept mouthing the social pleasantries like nothing was wrong.

Draco stepped closer, his hands curling into fists. Like all posh English aristocrats from the country, he was too confident to be put aside from anger by niceties. Especially when he was this angry.

“Stop it,” Harry said, his voice tight. Any fight between Draco and Dudley was a foregone conclusion. But the sight of his slim boyfriend squaring up to Dudley filled him with irrational panic.

For a moment Draco didn’t turn. The muscles of his back were so tense Harry wasn’t sure he _could_.

Then he came back, and it was just a few feet but the relief of having him where Harry could touch him was enormous.

“I’m well. This is my boyfriend, Draco.”

“Ah,” Dudley said, the nervousness spreading itself across his face increasing. “I’m, um, I’m middle management at Barclay’s these days.”

Harry nodded. This wasn’t meant to happen. This was an evening art exhibition that Draco had dragged him to. It was part of his grown-up life, of his escape: he was an adult with a boyfriend who loved him, with places to be of an evening, with family. How could Dudley be here?

“Maybe, er, we could get together some time,” Dudley continued doggedly.

“I don’t think so.” And Harry was leaving, half-running with Draco’s hand at his back. Forty seconds later they collapsed on a park bench with Harry’s face pressed against Draco’s stomach, Draco’s hands in his hair.

Dudley. With a girlfriend and a job. Not just the boy who’d said he wasn’t a waste of space and terrorised him his whole childhood.

They were cousins and they could have been brothers, but they didn’t know each other back then and hadn’t the faintest knowledge of each other now. Maybe Dudley wanted to change that, but Harry had never needed closure.

He’d escaped. He’d won. He didn’t have to go back.

He kissed Draco, sweet and long. “Let’s go home.”


	3. Bad Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry doesn’t think Draco’s much of a ‘bad boy’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for Sorting Hat Drabbles. The pairing was Harry/Draco, and the prompt was "scars - we all have them".

Draco hated his scars at first: white lines on his chest, thin as a swordblade swiping through his flesh. They were marks of failure, and Snape had told the Death Eaters.

Bellatrix insisted that he open his robes and show her. She traced the lines, her eyes feverish and her thin, mad face full of lust for revenge. Draco winced from her fingernails, his insides burning with mortification.

Padma Patil drew her long fingernails along the marks now, and Draco moaned and gave her a lazy smile.

Three years on he used the Sectumsempra scars to attract lovers. He’d somehow got a reputation as a bad boy, and his checkered past formed most of that appeal. (Draco privately admitted to himself that pointiness did not a distinguished jawline make, whatever his mother said.)

Scars made by Harry Potter in one of the encounters made famous by Skeeter’s unofficial biography carried undeniable cache with the sort of person who wanted to say they’d slept with Draco Malfoy, and he wasn’t above using that.

Padma slipped her hands onto his shoulders, used the leverage to lower herself onto his cock. Draco groaned; she slipped her hands up and held his face still for her kiss.

Draco shut his eyes and kissed her back: this was his only way to warmth.

The next day – Padma long gone – Potter arrived at the Manor to ‘request’ a book of Lucius’ for an investigation. Draco stared furiously at him, itching under the awareness that he couldn’t make Potter leave. Finally he jerked his head, and allowed Potter to follow him to the library.

It was eleven in the morning. Draco wasn’t dressed yet, and when he bent to look at Lucius’ desk, his dressing gown gaped from his chest.

“Scars,” Potter said. It seemed to slip out without his permission.

“We all have them.” Draco focused very hard on looking through the desk drawers. “Besides, chicks dig scars.”

Potter gave a gasping laugh. “ _What?_ ”

“People who want to have sex with me,” Draco said, voice tense, “like scars made by the hero on their bad boy.”

“Idiots,” Harry muttered. “You’re not bad.”

There wasn’t any special warmth to his words; he didn’t mean them as a declaration. Draco wasn’t even sure Harry knew he’d said them aloud. The neutral mutter was no sort of reason for his stomach to go soft, for affection to thrill through him this way.

Still. “Thank you.”

Harry glanced at him, nodded. His eyes fell to Draco’s bared chest again, and Draco smiled.

An hour later, Draco had brushed against Harry softly twice, and he’d let his dressing gown slip off his shoulders. Ten minutes after that, Harry was fucking him over the desk. It was frantic and rough, and Harry kissed his shoulders throughout.

He stayed all day, and all night too. He cuddled Draco, and kissed him comfortably. There was no thrill of the forbidden in his eyes.

It was the hottest thing Draco had ever seen.


	4. Beholden (Or Otherwise)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sod _compassion_ , that didn’t stop you gutting me like a fish! I’m not going to take your charity, Potter.” He hesitated, then set his pointed chin. “What do you want from me? We’ll make a bargain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for dracoharry100's current challenge, _compassion_.

“I don’t need your pity!” Malfoy seethed. He was pale as ash and looked exhausted. His gaunt face looked pared down by stress.

“It’s not pity,” Harry tried. He had no idea what to say – he couldn’t argue with Malfoy, not when the other boy looked as if he’d be knocked over by a stiff wind. “It’s compassion.”

“Sod _compassion_ , that didn’t stop you gutting me like a fish! I’m not going to take your charity, Potter.” He hesitated, then set his pointed chin. “What do you want from me? We’ll make a bargain.”

“I’m not being _bribed_ to testify!”

~*~

“Consider it a debt paid. So what shall I give you? I don’t have much any more…” Malfoy looked as though the words had bloodied his throat as they left it.

“You don’t need to – ”

“I won’t be beholden to you. I’m not going to be saved by you again, I refuse to need it. You can fuck me.”

Harry nearly choked. “What?”

“You can fuck me.” Malfoy’s voice was more certain than his eyes. “The offer’s more than fair.”

A pause.

“Why don’t we just start with dinner?”

The way Malfoy’s face lit up made Harry’s breath catch.


	5. Spells Aren't Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Words matter to wizards. Spells and enchantments, charms and curses; a wizard’s words can reshape the world around.
> 
> Words matter to Muggles too. Prayers are just another kind of spell: an appeal to a supernatural force to make things different, to revise the natural order until it’s not so painful."
> 
> FYI, while I'm an atheist myself, there is a bit of Christian prayer in this one and you can read it as helping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for dracoharry100's prompt, "words".

Words matter to wizards. Spells and enchantments, charms and curses; a wizard’s words can reshape the world around.

Words matter to Muggles too. Prayers are just another kind of spell: an appeal to a supernatural force to make things different, to revise the natural order until it’s not so painful.

Spells have not helped Harry. He lies, bound by a criminal’s curse, in his hospital bed; no potions or talismans or incantations can bring him back. He’s frozen; and though he despises himself for it, Draco hopes Harry’s mind is gone, that he isn’t thinking and alive inside his shell.

~*~

If his mind’s alive still behind his closed eyes, he must be screaming. Draco clutches Harry’s limp hand at the thought, throat catching until he can barely breathe, let alone speak. For his puppyish, physical Harry, paralysis would be torment; and to be gagged by his own body...

Words are identity. They’re being not-helpless. Draco has an utterly inappropriate flashback to Harry binding Draco’s wrists. He’d never gagged him, ever.

He shivers and opens his eyes. The shock of seeing Harry deathly still and bone-white after the memory is too much. Draco buries his head in the duvet and howls.

~*~

Finally, finally, he regains some semblance of control, sitting up and cleaning his face with a monogrammed handkerchief. The Healer said Harry might be able to hear them; he doesn’t want to upset Harry by selfishly sobbing through his visit.

A cold sense of hopelessness trickles through Draco, something he hasn’t felt since Voldemort’s death. If even the magic can’t help Harry...

Suddenly, he remembers a cathedral. What Muggles do when they’re desperate.

The magic isn’t enough. So Draco Malfoy, consummate pureblood, gropes for poor, Muggle words to try and save his lover.

_May the blessing of our Lord Jesus Christ..._

~*~

The prayer changes nothing. Draco’s face twists in miserable derision that he’d ever thought a Muggle method could help.

He’s so cold.

He gives in, doing what he always does when in need of comfort: he climbs onto the bed and lies close, linking their hands across Harry’s stomach. Harry doesn’t murmur kind words or kiss his hair, but at least he’s close.

“I keep wondering if this is my punishment. If it’s because I don’t deserve you. I don’t care if I don’t deserve you... I need you.” Draco keeps whispering. He can always trust Harry with his secrets.

~*~

Draco’s crying now. “You can’t die Harry. Don’t you remember being rivals? If you die now I’ll have won and that’ll ruin Heaven for you.” There’s a tinge of hysteria in his voice.

Then –

A twitch of fingers. It sends Draco leaping up, on his knees beside Harry and staring desperately into his face. “Harry? Harry was that you? Harry, I felt it, come back...” He can hardly see for the blurring of his vision.

After forever, Harry’s eyes twitch open.

“I heard you call me...”

Hours later they’re still lying snuggled on the sterile bed, whispering words of love.


	6. Almost Naked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone experiences Occlumency differently; Draco sees it as cloth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for a Harry/Draco Last Drabble Writer Standing. The prompt was "fuck me, fix me" at 299 words.

Everyone experienced Occlumency differently. Snape had pictured it as a black wall defending him from invaders. Draco’s mother saw her defences as a moat around the castle of her mind. Blaise’s Occlumency was fire, singeing the fingers of any who tried to root around inside his head.

Draco saw cloth.

It was gauzy, almost sheer: Draco couldn’t let Voldemort know he was Occluding. But the cloth surrounded his mind, holding off anyone who wanted to touch him intimately.

By seventh year the cloth felt like a shroud, entombing him under its cover.

Even when he survived, Draco couldn’t relax. He clung to his Occlumency, pulling it in deep folds around himself. His partners touched him only though the cloth. He huddled inside his Occlumency even as he sought stimulation that could reach him.

Perhaps he and Harry were inevitable.

Harry asked him out a little formally, and took him to dinner. They joked and told anecdotes and shared their pudding. Afterwards Harry kissed him very politely.

Draco kissed him back with enthusiasm.

They went to Harry’s flat. He undressed Draco slowly, palming Draco’s arse, stroking his face, tracing the ladder of Draco’s ribs. Draco opened for him easily: arms and legs and lips. Harry wasn’t especially skilled, but he was gentle and there was – something –

Harry entered him and caught his eyes at the same moment, and Draco cried out against Harry’s mouth. The cloth was gone. There was no barrier between them, nothing to muffle the slide of skin on skin or Harry’s piercing gaze.

Draco came first because Harry was a gentleman. Harry followed, and they lay panting in a sweaty, naked heap. Draco trembled, feeling newborn. This felt dangerous, yet nothing short of spectacular.

Even if come morning, he’d again be only almost naked.


	7. Pros and Cons of Fucking Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco liked to be organised even when his world was falling apart, so he made a list: Pros and Cons of Fucking Harry Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for a Harry/Draco Last Drabble Writer Standing, for the prompt "I hate that I want you".

Draco liked to be organised even when his world was falling apart, so he made a list: Pros and Cons of Fucking Harry Potter.

On the plus side: Potter’s eyes. They weren’t emerald-green like Skeeter said in her extremely unauthorised biography. They were sea-green, like you could fall into them fathoms deep.

And his cock, fat and red and such a satisfying weight in his hand.

His arse, too. It was dimpled and pale. When Draco insulted his friends after sex, the muscles there twitched delightfully with his irritation.

Only... there were callouses on his hands, because he’d been raised Muggle and he still carried boxes about. There were the small scars on his knees where he’d been shoved onto gravel as a child – purebloods grew up without scars. Most of all there was the lightning bolt, symbol of unexpected light in the darkness and everything that had half-destroyed Draco’s father.

Draco shouldn’t want him. He felt sick at the thought of it: of how disappointed Mother would look if she knew, of what his Father would say. And it wasn’t as if Draco threw himself into sex with Potter and somehow forgot his lover’s identity. Potter could not be accused of false advertising. His callouses and scars were inescapably there, just like Draco’s Mark. Their bodies shouted the reasons they shouldn’t touch.

But what about Potter’s hands? One was engraved with _I must not tell lies_ , the inescapable relic of Potter’s battles with the Ministry. They were strong and they brought down dark wizards.

They were always gentle with him, though: stroking his sides, teasing his nipples, playing with his hair.

Perhaps if Potter would hold hands with him, Draco could work it out.


	8. Forbidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting in the forest, as seen by the boys and the Forest itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for hd100's challenge, "the great outdoors".

A dark-haired boy was in the Forest. Creatures, not all of them harmless, raised their heads and sniffed the air. He was human; but he was powerful.

Soon, another boy arrived. This one was afraid of the Forest, and hadn’t been here since he’d run out screaming... the Forest did not forget. But the blond boy smelled of the dark-haired one, and the less friendly animals let him be.

They met, and made some of those noises humans needed, lacking tails to lash, or ears to twitch in displeasure. Then they joined and made different noises.

The boys left separately.

~*~

Draco found him in the clearing. “Harry.”

He turned. “Draco.”

They spoke a little, meaningless words to make what they had seem less meaningless: to prove to themselves that this was more than impersonal fucking. At first Draco was wary, and Harry fidgeted too. By the end, they were breathing into each other’s faces.

They undressed each other, fingers pressing and caressing and bruising. They moved together, eyes on each other’s pained faces, and came almost together.

Then they left, knowing that in this post-war world some things remained unchanged; this thing between them was still as it was.

Forbidden.


	9. Scared, Potter?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning to Hogwarts for his eighth year, Harry meets someone at the barrier at King’s Cross.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for the hd100 prompt, "wish".

Harry stopped feet from the barrier.

He’d been looking forward to Hogwarts and escaping the oppressive adoration. Now he was afraid it’d be the same there.

A shoe scuffed. Harry glanced sideways to see Malfoy, looking as anxious as Harry felt. He was determinedly looking away, but then glanced over, ducking his head awkwardly.

“Shouldn’t you see your fans?” It was a poor attempt at spite.

“I don’t want to deal with people either.”

Malfoy stared. Suddenly his wilted posture straightened, ashamed expression blossoming into a smile.

“Scared, Potter?”

Harry couldn’t let that stand.

“You wish!”

They walked forward together.


	10. Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's romantic urges don't quite work out. Warning for POV-shift between drabbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for the dracoharry100 prompt, "fire".

Harry smiled, and cuddled Draco closer. Having fed his posh boyfriend cordon bleu, Harry’d wracked up enough brownie points for Draco to consent to this: contented snuggling on the hearthrug, in front of a blazing fire.

A coal spat, and Harry felt Draco flinch under his arm. He looked down to see Draco almost quivering with tension, eyes fixed on the flames.

“Harry, maybe we should put the fire out. What if the rug catches on fire?”

Harry paused. “Sweetheart…” Draco looked up in surprise; Harry only used endearments when he was feeling protective. “Are you afraid of fire?”

~*~

“What?” Draco jerked away. “Typical, I don’t like stupid danger so I’m a coward – ”

“I didn’t say that.” Harry’s soft voice sounded odd after Draco’s spikiness. “Tell me.”

Draco shifted, looking down. Harry wanted to touch him, but contented himself with sitting close. “I’ve always had nightmares about being burnt by Muggles. Father told me about it.” At this, Harry gave in, curling a protective hand over Draco’s nape. “And after…” he swallowed, “what happened to Vince…”

Harry’s heart twanged. He pulled out his wand and doused the flames. Draco curled into him, seeking Harry’s warmth instead of the fire’s.

~*~

Harry led him upstairs, and Draco followed willingly; his grey eyes were storm-dark with memories, and Harry’s hand in his hair was a benediction.

They collapsed into bed together, and warm hands insinuated themselves under Draco’s robes, hot against his skin. Then he was bare, and Harry was crawling up his body, dropping kisses on his chest. Heat curled in Draco’s stomach; he reached for Harry, pulled him into the kiss.

He arched up as Harry warmed him from within.

They pressed close in the aftermath, sweat-sticky and panting into each other’s mouths. The darkness was safe, quiet and warm.


	11. Full Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Draco Malfoy, get out of that bed right now.”
> 
> Draco felt the blood drain from his face. His father was standing in the doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for both dracoharry100's prompt "sleepy" and hd100's prompt "pink".

Draco woke, curling into Harry with a sleepy smile. It was nice to be back in the Manor for a weekend – especially since he’d sneaked Harry in. His parents wouldn’t be back until the evening, so they could –

“Draco Malfoy, get out of that bed right now.”

Draco felt the blood drain from his face. His father was standing in the doorway.

Harry sat up, his voice strained but unpanicked. “Mr Malfoy – ”

“Father, I – ”

“Now.”

Draco had never seen his father so angry. Two blotches of pink marked his cheeks above white lips.

He swallowed, and followed him out.

~*~

Draco arrived in Harry’s flat that evening, his face white and strained. “What happened?”

Pink rose instantly on Draco’s cheeks, as if he’d been slapped. “He said I was disgusting!”

“Oh, no...” Harry opened his arms, and Draco came instantly to lean against his chest. “He’s wrong. He’ll calm down...”

“Don’t wanna think ’bout it.”

“Bedtime, sweetheart; you’re exhausted.”

“No – ” The protest didn’t last. They showered together, but didn’t fuck; Harry washed Draco’s hair while Draco nuzzled into his devoted touch.

In bed, Harry felt Draco curl into him as he had that morning – sleepy and trusting, and loving him still.


	12. A Case of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry was meant for love among the ruins: none more constant in the darkness, but afterwards, when they were putting themselves back together, they mislaid their love somehow. They almost forgot their connection: but that was why it worked. Because it was always _almost._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for a meme. You put your phone/iPod/whatever on shuffle, and pick a pairing. You write a ficlet (or whatever) based on the song that comes up, and you only have as long as the song plays to come up with something and write. Ten songs, ten little fics.
> 
> This one, obviously, was for [A Case of You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0YuaZcylk_o).

It was complicated. Harry was meant for love among the ruins: none more constant in the darkness, but afterwards, when they were putting themselves back together, they mislaid their love somehow. They almost forgot their connection: but that was why it worked. Because it was always _almost_. That time it was Harry who saved them.

He told everyone that he needed time away, and they nodded respectfully and hugged him goodbye. Then he took Draco’s hand, and they Apparated to a Canadian cabin and spent a month drinking of each other, seeing no one else and somehow not sick of each other. That time, surrounded by snow, was sacred to them. Draco thought sometimes that Harry had replaced the pure blood in his veins, replaced the old beliefs with something new, fizzing sour but lovely in his veins.

The next time, Draco saved them. Harry couldn’t understand, and they were screaming at each other, faces twisted, Harry’s wet. Draco said he couldn’t explain, and he said it with his breath coming hoarse and gasping. “I can’t explain why I need you.”

_Because I need you to be unafraid of the darkness. So I can be too._

Harry went to Narcissa, and she said something – Draco didn’t know what. Harry came back and hugged him, his expression set as it had always been before war.


	13. Sunlight Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wakes from a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written - and won! - Sorting Hat Drabbles. The pairing was H/D and the prompt was "midnight memories".

Three weeks into the Reconstruction of Hogwarts, Harry woke at half-past two biting down on a cry of fear. He could taste blood.

He sat up, opening his eyes as wide as he could. The world was a blur, but in the bright moonlight shining through the ceiling of the Great Hall, Harry could see the rows of campbeds with sleeping volunteers huddled on them. Ron's red head was on the bed next to Harry's, his freckled feet poking over the other end. Beyond Ron, Harry could make out the fuzz of Hermione's hair, blurred into an even bigger brown halo by his short-sightedness.

Harry felt around until he found his glasses, and pushed them onto his face. He sat shivering in the July heat. His mind still felt cold, invaded by Voldemort's voice and a Death Eater screaming and Malfoy's pale, strained face as he cast the Cruciatus.

Harry's body was wracked by another sympathetic shudder at the blurry memory of the Death Eater under the Cruciatus.

The sleeping mumbles and moans, the familiar faces around him, it wasn't helping. Harry touched his wand – a wartime reflex that had yet to fade – then padded out of the Great Hall, heading for Hogwarts' steps and nighttime air.

One of Hogwarts' great front doors was already open. Harry stepped out, hissing a little as his bare feet met the stone outside, and stopped short. Draco Malfoy was sitting there.

Malfoy turned at Harry's hiss, and his pale face went still, his grey eyes pale and fixed on Harry's face. “Potter.”

“Hi.” Harry wished he wasn't wearing the Snitch pyjamas Ron had got him four Christmases ago.

“I'm not up to anything. You can sleep the sleep of the righteous.” Malfoy turned away, ducking his head. The ruffled hairs at his nape were almost invisible.

“I wasn't looking for you.” Irritated by his own hovering, Harry sat on the steps too. “I had a bad dream.”

Malfoy gave him a startled look. “Me too.” Perhaps recognising the vulnerability of the admission, Malfoy hitched a sneer onto his face. “I saw the Dark Lord 24/7, not just every so often.”

“I know.” Harry was too tired to fight with him. “You were in my nightmare, actually. I had a vision last year of Voldemort making you cast Crucio for him.”

Malfoy's breath hitched at Voldemort's name. “Then we had the same dream.”

They looked at each other for a moment. Then the weight of the moment became too much, and they broke the connection, turning to look at the Forbidden Forest.

“I really thought you were dead,” Malfoy said. “I thought I was, too.”

Harry took a deep lungful of dark air. “Apparently not.”

“Mmm.” Malfoy relaxed back out of his tense hunch, sprawling back on the steps. He looked as if he should be sunning himself, the moonlight gleaming over his pale throat, cheek, hair. He looked as if he wanted very much to be relaxed in Harry's presence.

Harry searched for something to say that would make that true, that would ease the tautness of this encounter.

“Did you hear the Tornados are back in practice?”

“Yeah. They think we might actually get a full season once Quidditch is back. Nothing can stop that.” Malfoy's smile was quicksilver.

“Nothing except Song's million injuries...” Harry felt himself relax into Hogwarts' stone as they talked about the future, arguing about the Harpies' chances and if that Greek Chaser had been worth the two million Galleons.

When the sun came up, they were sprawled together on the warming steps, fast asleep.


End file.
